Page 121 of Woman on the Verge

“And I guess I have it easy in that this disease is so fast moving. Some people watch someone die over the course of months, years.”

“I don’t think you have it easy. I imagine your mind can’t even catch up with reality most days.”

“There you go again—saying the exact right thing. It’s like you’re in my brain,” I say.

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m part of a special government program investigating mind-reading technology.”

“Well, if that’s the case, the program is a booming success.”

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

“You’re doing it.”

Here I am, with this realconnectionwith this person who was supposed to be just a fling, a one-night departure from my real life. It doesn’t make any sense. Or rather, it makes as much sense as a one-in-a-million brain disease.

“My life is a mess,” I tell him.

“Everyone’s life is a mess.”

“Maybe, but mine is egregiously messy.”

My real name isn’t Katrina.

I’m married. I’m going to get a divorce. For you.

I have a pregnancy test in my purse. I have a fantasy that I’m carrying your baby.

The confessions sit poised on the tip of my tongue.

I am too afraid of the response, too afraid of his shock and horror, too afraid of his abandonment. My psyche cannot handle Elijah exiting my life right now. The confessions will have to wait.

“I don’t mind your mess,” he says.

That’s because you only know the half of it.

“You are a unicorn of a human being.”

He turns his face toward mine, kisses my cheek. “So are you.”

We stay cuddled on the blanket for an hour before I say, “I should get back.” I’ve been keeping an eye on my phone, terrified to get a text from Merry that says,Where are you? It’s time.I would tell her I was just out for a walk. She wouldn’t ask questions or even care. But I would hate myself if I missed his last breath, if I wasn’t there with him then.

Elijah takes my hands, helps me stand. Then he picks up the blanket, folds it, stuffs it under his arm.

“I’ll wait to hear from you,” he says. “Just know I’m thinking of you during all this. Constantly.”

I rest my forehead against his chest, then turn my head so my ear is pressed against him. I can hear his heart beating, a slow, steady, relaxed beat.

“It’s just so weird. I won’t have a dad soon.”

He kisses the top of my head. “You’ll always have a dad.”

He offers to drive me home, but I insist on walking. He doesn’t push. The house is quiet when I get back, except for the sound of the oxygen machine. I close the door quietly behind me, go to my room, and get into bed in an attempt to trick my body into sleeping. It doesn’t work.

When I see daybreak outside the window, I go downstairs. The overnight hospice nurse is sitting in a chair at Dad’s bedside, holding his wrist in her hand, taking his pulse.

“Hi,” I whisper. “How is he?”